


I'm So Smart, I'm Going to Live Forever

by Bobsled_Hostage



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe: Bloodswap, Blue!Aradia, Bulges and Nooks, Dubious Consent, F/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Orgasm Denial, Power Imbalance, Robo Aradia, Rust!Equius, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 23:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: What do such machines really do? They increase the number of things we can do without thinking. Things we do without thinking — there's the real danger.-Troll Danny Elfman





	I'm So Smart, I'm Going to Live Forever

He’d begged you to let him oversee the transplantation.  What if one of his designs didn’t work as intended?  What if his calculations were off?  Any one of a thousand things could have gone wrong, lobotomizing you or leaving you to bleed out on the operating slab, or seating your thinkpan incorrectly in your new nugbone of diamond and steel - flush with nutrients but unable to control your new body.  Buried alive in your own creation.

But it was something you had to do yourself.  You couldn’t let him see your twisted husk of a body.  In pictures, yes, and in the measurements and detailed biometric specifications you’d given him.  But not in person.  You knew that the first time you let him see you in the real world, it would be in your shiny new form.  The one you saw in your daymares.  Whenever you closed your glancenuggets.

 

Your glancenuggets don’t close anymore.  They’re synthetic diamond and they reflect light into millions of tiny photonic circuits that feed signals into your newly expanded optic nerve.  At the moment, they scan the terrain as far out as the horizon as you speed through the air on jets of ionized water.  Another one of his lovely designs.  And that’s his hive, that sad little cluster of modules slapped together, lawnring all around filled with industrial junk.

The walls are thin enough that your t-ray emitters can pick him out.  Sitting hunched over his workstation, as usual.  Waiting anxiously to hear back from you.  Worried something had gone wrong and you were dead.

You send a burst message to every computing device in his hive

AA: l00k 0ut y0ur wind0w

He startles, falls out of his chair.  Scuttles back to peer at the message on his screen.  Sweats, you can tell by his heart rate.  Rushes to peer out at you.  Sweats harder.  You peel out of sight, double back and swoop by, rolling as you go so he can get a good view.  All this freedom of movement feels _so amazing,_ you don’t think you’ll ever get over it.  Another quick loop and you land just outside his door.  You hit the lock with a targeted burst of electromagnetism, instantly pushing the tumblers into position so you can enter.

He freezes.  He was obviously stuck between trying to tidy up and just letting you inside, so you made that decision for him.  He sweats, coughs once.  He’s wearing shorts and an a-shirt that dangles off his body in several places where it’s meant to be taught.  He’s scared.  How could he not be?

y0ur design w0rked perfectly

c> Hhhhh

How long has it been since he talked to another troll in person?

c> Have you tested the weapons systems yet?

He catches his breath, inhales.

c> I was unsure whether the stabilizers in the targeting system would need to be re-zeroed after flight, perhaps we could-

take 0ff y0ur cl0thes

c> ...Highblood I-

call me by my name when y0u d0 as i say

You’re done with the old titles.  Done with old ways of doing things.  They went by the wayside when you emerged from your cocoon of steel and sterile surgical gel.  Metamorphosed to discard your crippled form and become a beautiful thinking machine.

c> Yes Aradia

Without his clothes he looks even more pathetic.  He knows there’s nothing he could ever hope to hide from you, when you can see the entire EM band.  But he still covers his tiny rumblespheres with one hand and his genitals with the other.  He hunches up, against your gaze and against the cold.  And it _is_ cold in here, you realize.  He’s got the heat down to stretch his money a little farther.  How could you let him live like this, out here in the middle of nowhere where something could happen to him?  Where anyone could just take him away from you?  Well you won’t let that happen again.  He worked so _hard_ for you.  Grovelling and apologizing about the poor quality of his work, but always delivering ahead of schedule and above expectations.  You never could have done it without him, and he never asked for anything in return.  Never even thought about it.

This will be the first of his many rewards.

You flick his dark glasses away, the last article of clothing on his body.  He flinches, like he thought you were going to hit him.  He squints.

Oh dear, he must have needed those to see.  Well, he can find you well enough with his fronds.

t0uch me

He shudders and his breath hitches.  It takes him a moment to even process it.  He’s allowed to touch you.  He’s been _ordered_ to touch you.  You knew he was violently aroused the second he realized who you were.   _What_ you were.  You could smell him self lubricating, willing his bulge not to slide out and soil his only good pair of pants.  Your “nose” is 10^9 elegant crystal filaments, branching fractally down to a quantum level.  He should know, he designed it.  The second his hand leaves his sheathe, his bulge follows it out.  His fronds smear sticky pre-material all over your perfect carapace.  He was expecting it to be cold, but you deliberately equalized your heat dissipation until you were almost as warm all over as him.

He hesitates again, waiting for a reaction.  A blow to the nugbone for being so presumptuous as to trollhandle you.  It doesn’t come.  So he touches every part of you he can get his fronds on.  Some of you he built himself and sent via the courier drone you dispatched.  Some he sent blueprints and you forged yourself.  Some are your own schematics, which he’s never seen before.  His hands squeeze your ass.  You have a suspicion he based the design on the wrist guards they put on mousepads.  If he’s that comfortable with you, he’s ready for the next stage. You get two fronds under his thighs.  You picked the meatiest parts of his legs but you can still almost feel the bone when you lift him up.  His skin has that greasy texture you know comes from his body breaking down things it shouldn’t for nutrients.  Your thirty augmented senses detect that and a thousand other infirmities, all of which go straight to your bulge.  Which you let slide wetly out of its stowage compartment, filling its vesicles and extending to its full length.

He looks down at it, flexing and slapping wetly at his own (which yours easily outmatches two to one).  With a thought, you slide the curve of it down to rub against his lips - which are practically sweating pre-material.  You can smell his fear, in every sense of the expression.

have y0u ever had anything bigger than y0ur fingers up here?

c> N-no, Highbl-

You squeeze him a little harder than necessary

c> No, Aradia

You smile.

g00d 0u0

You slide it in with enough force to just avoid permanently hurting him.

He _screams_.

 

(How did the indecisive pail slave respond when asked if he could fit the bluebl00d?

 _I’m torn_ )

 

You designed your bulge yourself.  As much as you know he’d never let you down (on purpose, anyway) you couldn’t trust it to anyone else.  No fewer than fifty eight points of articulation and more than twice as many nerve endings as the genuine article had.  Soft bio-rubber coating over the ball and socket joints to ensure nothing sensitive gets caught in the servos. 

And it’s bigger than your old one.

(It’s got a series of limiters you could disable if you wanted to.  But you don’t _literally_ want to fuck him into jelly.)

(But he doesn’t know that)

A couple of his claws break against the unbreakable plates of your back.  His fronds kick as he instinctively struggles to get away.  He’s crying and already drenched in sweat.  You hold him in a vice grip, not letting him hurt himself and not letting him get away.  It’ll go better for both of you if he just bites down and lets himself get used to taking you.  And you **know** he wants this.  You’ve treated yourself to his browser history - the casteplays with gutterbloods taking tentacles the size of their arm.  You can tell by the way he clings that he wants to be good for you.  And he’s so good - if you were still in your old, mangled body there’s no way you would have lasted this long.  With your total neuromuscular control, you can keep yourself on a crest of tight, hot pleasure pretty much indefinitely.  The only question is how long _he’ll_ last.

will y0u be 0k if i m0ve it?

He presses his face into your shoulder and whimpers.

c> Yes Aradia

He’d say he was ok if it was killing him.  But you read off the tone of his voice, his blood pressure, the synapses firing in his thoughtsponge.  He squirms to get more comfortable in your grasp, ribs straining against his sides.  Your eyes whir in their sockets, peering through the walls.  You look around the hive for something soft to pail him on.  The cupe is barely big enough for his tiny body, let alone two trolls.  His computer chair would break.  He doesn’t own a couch, or even a pityseat.  You settle on a pile of almost-clean laundry.  When you focus on it it smells almost as much like him as he does - which would make you even hornier if you weren’t already edging up at your limit.  Without further modifications to your anguishbladder, that is.  But then you’d have to rewire your whole endocrine system to-

Focus, Aradia.  Your nullifiers flare to life and you glide to the livingblock.  He sighs a little and you make sure you have a good grip on him, supporting his torsopillar with a hand on his back.  You don’t take your bulge out though.  He needs to get used to it.

You lay him down under you on his back, pinning him.  Not with your full weight, just enough to cover him up like the weighted snuggleplane you know he likes to hide under when he feels a panic attack coming on.  He wraps his arms and legs around you and just shivers.  A hot, sweaty little ball of anxiety against your chest.  His bloodpusher is speeding up again, if you don’t do something he’s going to think he did something wrong.

here it c0mes 0_0

You m0ve it.  Specifically, you activate the vibrate setting.  He responds loudly and immediately.  His grip tightens and his asthmatic whine gets higher.  His nook ripples and clenches.  Not a _get out, please get out_ clamping down, but a concupiscent _come hither._  You were worried you’d have to force open his seedflap, but his body responds exactly as you predicted.  His bulge keeps trying to wrap around yours and keeps slipping off.  He’ll remember this forever, you’ll make sure.  How you hurt him, but how good it felt when he gave it a chance.  (As if you needed to do anything to command his absolute obedience).  You record a memo that next time, you want another bulge.  One where your tongue is, so you can fuck his throat while you kiss.  And another between your legs, so you can open up his waste chute at the same time as his nook.  And handles on your shoulderblades, so he has something to grab onto instead of scraping his poor fingers raw.

He’s getting a little too close to spilling, so you hit him with a calculated zap to the genebladder - just enough to stop him from cumming.  He yelps and for a second thinks he’s done something wrong.  That one of his wonderful designs is malfunctioning and now he’s paying the well deserved price.  It’s so sweet that you let yourself laugh.

y0u’re d0ing s0 g00d, equius >u<

He hides his face in the soft silicone of your rumblespheres.  You flick your bulge back into action and he whines into them.  It’s so tempting to just seed him right here.  You purposefully overfilled your slurry tanks just for your first time together.  You want to pull your bulge out and see your inky blue genetic material gush out of the bruised lips of his nook, where his genebladder couldn’t store all of it.  You want to spurt on his face and watch him catch it in his mouth and swallow without hesitation, turning into the stream even though he can barely see.

All that can wait.  For now, you’ll take him to the edge of another orgasm.  And another.  You’ll keep him on edge until he’s so desperate his desire to finally spill will overcome his visceral fear of presuming to ask anything of you.

You’ll punish him for that, obviously, because that’s what he expects.  What he _craves_.  And then you’ll do it again.  You’ll do it until your biometrics tell you doing it again would kill him, and then you’ll finally let him finish.

(You have half a mind not to stop there.  He’d keep servicing you whether or not you let him actually spill.  He could learn to suck you off with the prospect of relieving his genebladder on satisfactory performance.  Or three)

(But you’ll let him off the hook, this time.  This is supposed to be a reward, you remind yourself).

He’s crying again.

 

* * *

 

When you shower up, he can’t stand.  You have to support him while he scrubs slurry out of places you never thought it would get stuck.  He apologizes for the unforeseen flaw in his design, and offers to work out a solution immediately if you’ll only drag him to his husktop - which he is fully prepared to crawl to should that prove beneath your station.  You accept his profuse apologies with the admonishment that he will design said improvements when he is in a fit state to do so - ergo not right now.  He protests that he isn’t nearly as sore as he looks, and anyways he rarely sleeps through the entirety of the day anyway.  You admonish him less gently and he immediately assents.  Rather than depositing him in the stale, rancid slime of his recuperacoon, you give him a sopor injection from your automatic medical systems and let him curl up under his weighted snuggleplane while you clip and file away the bloody fragments of the claws he broke scrabbling against you.

 

His head rests on the smooth metal curve of your belly, where you vent excess heat.  Hot enough to warm, not hot enough to scald.  Most of the time, anyway.  He has bruises where his hips met yours.  You idly open up CAD and quickly work out some some padding for the front of your pelvis.  When you bruise him next time, it won’t be by accident.

There’s no way he’ll be able to walk for at least a night.  Not after all that.  But he won’t need to.  When he comes home with you at sundown you’ll carry him.  He’s got no lusus who’ll miss him, no neighbors.  Everything he owns worth saving you could carry in one hand.  You can’t let him go, now that his wonderful machines are the thing keeping you alive.

He’ll be your second in command, and he’ll never have to worry about anything besides you again.  You’ll have to fix those snaggly teeth of his.  They’re adorable, but you can’t imagine how much trouble they give him eating.  Not to mention other uses you could put his mouth to.  And his poor ganderbulbs, how weak do they have to be if he can’t even see without those dark glasses?  You’ll give him a better pair, something like yours that can see in every possible spectrum of light.  ...Or would it be more efficient to just make him a new body?  Wire everything up to his thinkpan directly.  He wouldn’t have to feel bad about his gross blood - wouldn’t even _be_ a gutterblood anymore.  And no more waiting for him to slowly hunt and peck out his thoughts to you with keyboard and mouse, or for him to stutter them out one faltering word at a time.  Your minds would never be more than a flashing synapse away.  And you wouldn’t outlive him either, he’d be able to serve at your side forever.

 

But then, you’d have to keep this body on ice, and put him back in it occasionally.  He’s just so _cute_ like this 0u0


End file.
